


Come in and know me better man

by pigeonstatueconundrum



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Extended Metaphors, Faked character death, Hallucinations, Imprisonment, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, So Many Over-Extended Metaphors, The Court of Owls - Freeform, metaphorical animal abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonstatueconundrum/pseuds/pigeonstatueconundrum
Summary: Through months of capture and torture by the Court of Owls, Ed has refused to give up. But in the wake of another failed escape attempt and the news of The Penguins death there seems no logical reason to escape. With no friends and no hope there is still something left, The Riddler, and he refuses to give up. It's Christmas Eve and there are three new spirits haunting Edward Nygma.(eventual happy ending, I promise)





	1. Tidings of comfort and joy

[](http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com/post/154628402203/come-in-and-know-me-better-man-chapter-1) 

There is a large mirror set into the wall of his cell. It pulled the walls closer around Ed as he stared into the surface from him sparse bed. Through broken glasses, he strained to see if he could catch a glimpse of his observers. Constant observation through subtle interior decorating was their style.

Ed shifted on the mattress, trying not to put any more pressure on his abused ribs. His latest escape attempt had got him only as far as the floor above. The rabbit warren of the mansion above still unreachable as it had been two months ago when he was first thrown in here. By sneaking through the vents he’d managed to reach the ballroom. The service staff had been setting up for some opulent party but after taking one look as Ed’s tattered clothes and bare feet and screamed for security.

Catherine had just laughed when The Talon had dragged him back into the interrogation room. She only came to see him when she could gloat, usually leaving him to the mercy of the Talon or the seemingly hundreds of interchangeable guards.

The light shifts and the room behind the mirror is revealed. Catherine sits in a large chair, the Talon by her shoulder patiently waiting for her next decree. Her expression has never changed after the months of orders and beatings. Ed refuses to let hers he the last voice he hears.

“The Court has unlimited resources and time.” She said, her voice muffled through the microphone, “Things you, Mr Nygma, do not possess.”

Ed manages a sneer in her direction, too spent to do anything else. Pressure had been building around his temples since he’d awoken in his cell. A throbbing ache that only growing under the whine of the halogen bulb.

“For a smart man the inevitability of the situation seems lost to you.” She sighed. “my colleagues were impressed by the information you were able to gain on us. But that good will is rapidly diminishing the longer you refuse our terms of employment.”

Ed shuddered as the sound of the bottom panel of the door slidding open with a shriek of reluctant metal. His dinner tray, punctual and unnourishing, was slid onto the floor. He set upon it, the demands of his ravenous stomach greater than the embarrassment he had felt all those months ago.

He was halfway through his thin soup when he saw it. He swept aside the blunt plastic cutlery to grab the paper beneath. It had been months since he’d seen a newspaper. The idea that sun rose and the economy flowed while he was locked away seemed strange. Without his glasses the text swam before his eyes but Ed recognized the blocky text of Gotham Gazette anyway. It was only the front page, cut away from the rest of the paper with dull scissors. His head throbbed tighter as he tried to focus of the words.

**Former Mayor Killed In Police Shootout**

Ed savagely tamped down on the whimper that curdled in his throat and made himself read on. He made his fingers relax as the precious paper nearly tore.

**The Christmas Eve celebration were cancelled last night as the whole of downtown Gotham became a warzone, writes Valerie Vale, Senior Correspondent, as the police surrounded the hideout of the alleged crime kingpin and former Mayor, Oswald Cobblepot. Mr Cobblepot was ousted from office earlier this year after evidence of his criminal empire was brought to light by an anonymous source. The GCPD had been searching for Cobblepot since hordes of his former constituents burnt his former residence to the ground. the search ended last night in bloodshed from both sides. Detective Gordon of the GCPD said he “regretted” the loss of life on both sides but that “justice had been served.”**

“No.”

Catherine is saying something but Ed can’t hear. The whine of the bulb has morphed into a roar He knew every measurement of breath and quart of blood that pumps through his chest. Yet he is empty.

“No.”

 _Get up._ Someone says. Is it Catherine?

“No.”

_We have to get out, this changes nothing._

But he’s dead. Ed thought. His hands are in his hair, bloodless fingers grabbing the roots as pinpricks of pain that barely register over the maelstrom of his mind.

“He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s…”

 _Why does it matter?_ Asked the familiar voice. _We got what we wanted, congratulations. Better the GCPD than the Sirens or the baying crowd you set on him._

There is no air in Ed’s chest anymore so it cannot be him that keeps repeating “No, no no.”

 _Loo_ _k at me_

“No.”

 _Loo_ _k at me_

Ed slowly comes back to his body where it lies curled in the foetal position. The bowl that once contained his dinner is spilled across the floor cold and unappetising. Ed blinks as his eyes adjust to the dimmed lights, his captor’s only concession to the passing of time. Across the room the mirror has returned to reflecting the walls of his confinement. Some nameless guard is probably watching him now.

He pulls himself up on shaky limbs that don’t want to move. Ed drags himself to the mirror to stare at the drawn face staring back. Lost eyes stare of a broken face canvased with bruises. There is a dried trickle of blood on the side of his neck and a larger one from his nose where he hit it after reading the article.

“I’m looking.” He whispers.

The second face shakes it’s head. Ed can barely focus as this figure paces from wall to wall. His headache grows.

Apart from the bags under his eyes, the Riddler looks the same as ever. Ed supposes that without perceiving some part of his wretched psyche being whole he would have lost it by now.

 _You’ve already lost it_ , the Riddler snaps. _We concern ourselves with what’s happening out there when we get out._

“I’ve tried.” Ed argued.

 _We need to think of another plan._ The Riddler insisted as he continued pacing.

“I can’t think about that now.” Ed said, sinking to the bed.

He covered his tried eyes but he could still feel the pacing behind his fingers. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

_Who else would you listen to?_

Ed looks up at that. From the glass it looks like the Riddler is behind him on the bed, much smaller and sadder than Ed has ever seen him. He bit his lip as another whimper escaped.

A trickle of blood fell unheeded from the Riddler’s lip. _Why does it matter_ , he repeated in a drained whisper.

“I don’t know.” Ed said.

There is something in the back of his mind scrabbling to come to the forefront, if only his head didn’t hurt so much. He looked into the eyes of his oldest friend where they stared back at him sadly from the mirror.

_Then find out._

The room goes dark.

Ed is walking in the woods.

There is something behind him. Something dark and terrible that he must get away from. But he doesn’t run. He steps carefully over a twisted tree root that lies in his path.

Idly, Ed recognises where he is. He is in the woods outside of town he grew up. The air is thick with pine, the scent heavy in his nose. He wants to turn around and see what is behind him but he knows that cannot. There are some things you cannot come back from and he has just done one of them.

There is a metallic snap on the path in front. Ed stops. He has time. There is a rabbit caught in a snare. Its fat plump body twist wildly in the wire, red eyes mad with fear. Ed stoops down to watch making sure his hands are well away from its sharp teeth. He undoes the snare and grabs the rabbit before it can run back down the path. It flails wildly but Ed keeps his grip firm.

“Edward. Pay attention.”

Ed looks up as his mother tuts. They are seated in the hard plastic of his high school auditorium. Around them are fidgeting parents and siblings all stuck together in the boiling room.

“Here.” His mother passes him a blocky camcorder from the depths of her handbag. “You need to record Edward’s part for your father.”

Ed rolls his eyes, “He didn’t want to watch me live.” He muttered, “He’s not going to find time to watch it later.

His mother pressed the camcorder into his hard with more force than necessary. She never argued in public in view of the neighbours.

Ed sighed and turned his attention to the stage. He watched as his younger self entered the stage in the chains and bedsheet of a Victorian ghost.

“Hear me Ebenezer Scrooge!” said young Ed in a bored voice. “My time is nearly gone. I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. You will be haunted by Three Spirits.”

In the audience Ed snorted with laughter. In the dark his mother pinched him.

_You get that moron._

Ed’s head snapped up. His younger self is staring out at him, the costume chains around his wrist writhing like snakes.

 _You don’t want to listen to me,_ The Riddler snapped, fine, _maybe you’ll listen someone else._

Ed found himself walking towards the Riddler. “Listen to what?”

He had to grip the camcorder in both hands as it started to violently squirm. Ignoring his mother’s shouting he climbed up to the stage. The scent of pine was overpowering and the Riddler’s voice was nearly lost in the whine of static.

 _The Why_ , The Riddler replied.

His chains wriggled towards Ed, slow and deliberate, the wicked metal barbs glinting in the stage lights.

“Why what?” Ed narrowly missed the sharp teeth that tried to bite his hand “Why does it matters that he’s dead?”

The Riddler rolled his eyes, _No_ , he said slowly, W _hy it matters we escape._

The chains launched themselves at Ed’s chest. He stumbled back; arm flung out in vain hope of stopping the jagged links. The deathly silent auditorium was wrenched with a scream. The rabbit was snared in the chains. It’s clawed against the air as it was lifted towards the roof. The Riddler smiled at Ed.

_I think you’re needed upstairs now_


	2. While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ghost of Christmas Past has a problem with their title. Ed gets stage fright.

[ ](http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com/post/154725129118/come-in-and-know-me-better-man-chapter-2)

Ed smacked his head on the wall as he awoke. As the stars cleared from him vision he slowly became aware of the catalogue of bruises from the day before. Every breath remained agony and the pain from his head was only equalled by that of his neck. The idea of eating even the most basic of breakfast made his stomach recoil. 

Turning his attention to the door hatch which usually would have his food waiting, Ed paused. The plastic bowel was already empty. The few drops of congealed dried porridge clung to the bottom of the bowl, the cutlery already licked clean of any remaining morsel 

Dragging himself onto shaking legs, Ed went over to inspect. The items were laid out in the neat right angles the Ed was done so every morning. Could he have forgotten he’d eaten?  

Ed lifted up the tray, hoping that a simple explanation lay underneath the brittle plastic. The newspaper article fluttered to the floor. Someone had straitened it out from where it had been balled into Ed’s fist, using the weight of the tray to make it lie flat. Ed quickly dropped the tray back onto it.

 _Typical_ , a voice called from behind, _Edward Nygma not willing to deal with the consequences of his actions_.

Ed turned in disbelief. Even with his broken glasses the figure in the glass was unmistakable. Perhaps the Court made a third, Ed thought hopelessly.

Kristin Kringle fixed Ed with a glare as she looked around the sad contents of the room, _Here we are again_.

“Why am I seeing you?” Ed asked as he drew slowly towards the mirage.

_Didn’t you hear the whole; three spirits, mend your ways, blah blah?_

“Oh god.” Ed breathed.

I _know, not how I pictured the afterlife I can tell you_ , she huffed, _at least I’m not alone_.

“What do you..?”

A second figure materialized behind Ed’s shoulder. The blond giggled at his dumbfounded expression.

_Hey sweetheart, I hope I’m looking a bit better now than the last time you saw me._

“What is this?” Ed asked. He rubbed his strained eyes but his exes still persisted.

 _Ghost of Girlfriends past_ , Kristin replied.

 _We’re a package deal_ , Isabell added. _Although I still think I should have been the Ghost of Christmas Present_.

When Ed is too dumfounded to respond to this she sighed. Identically to Kristen, he noticed, God he’d been blind.

 _Because I was a present_ , she continued, _you know, from the Court_.

 _For a so-called genius that was pretty dumb_ , Kristen added.

“What do you want?” Ed finally asked. “Want me to strangle you too. Make you a real matching set?”

 _Oh your Penguin did a fine job there_ , Isabella said, _he was too late anyway._ _By then you’d spilled it all, your little investigation in the Court of Owls. That breadcrumb trail you’d followed from a few words from Hugo Strange._

Kristin smirked _, Months of digging in secret and you tell it all to the first batting pair of eyelashes that pays you any attention._

At Isabella’s pout she patted her doppelgänger conspiratorially, _they were my eyelashes originally remember_. 

Ed head was pounding. He wanted to sleep for a week and wake up away from here. Somewhere his brain won’t punish him. The mystery of the empty bowl was still gnawed at him mind.

“You want me to say I’m sorry.” Ed snapped, “Want me swear to be a changed man and honor Christmas all the year.”

 _You’re a psychopath,_ Kristen laughed _._

 _Monster_ , Isabella added, _Freak,_

 _And always will be,_ they whispered.

“Shut Up, Shut up, Shut up.”

The static is back, his head filled up with a red numbing mist as their tandem laughter echoed around his brain.

 _You won’t change_ , Kristen mocked, _even if you get out you’ll just keep on making the same mistakes._

 _I was the second Kristen_ , Isabella wrapped her arms around the other woman, resting a ghostly chin on her shoulder, _and_ _I won’t be the last_.

 _It’s your own fault you’re in here, if you hadn’t been such a moron and seen the trap you’d still be with Os.._. Kristen said pressing the kiss to Isabella’s brow.

“Don’t say his name.” Ed shouted. His hands ached from where they were balled into fists.

Isabella just giggled, _Figgie pudding and the fattest goose_

_I warned you. This is what happens to people like you._

_Psychopath_ _,_

_Monster,_

_Freak._

_This is where you belong_

The image shattered. The mocking laughter multiplying in every shard.  The red is in his fingers now. It smears across the mirror but it didn’t drown the laughter. It presses against his chest, pushing against his broken ribs, dispelling the air from his lungs in a scream of a snared animal.

 _This is all there is for you_.

And the room goes dark.

He’s is back in the GCPD station kneeling in front of the vending machine. Biohazard tape that had been wrapped in bow around it now lay in tattered heap at his feet. Something dark and sticky that Ed has no interest in investigating has dried his shirt to his chest.  He is the only one in the building, something Ed had sadly never experienced while he worked there. A record is playing somewhere, too far away and faint to make out the words.

The slots are full of cupcakes. Drips of jams ooze along the mechanisms and onto the tray bellow. Ed is putting old pennies into the machine, the heady smell burns in his nose. There is one empty slot that he needs but it’s at the back. Ed looks up as he hears something. it could be footsteps upstairs or it could be the building breathing.

The rejected cakes are pilled higher than the top of the tray now. The smell of the old pennies as they rattle down the shoot is overwhelming. A bead of sweat prickles painfully down Ed’s neck. Something falls down in the stairwell, making him jump. The pennies flow from his hands cascading across the floor.

A puzzle box, old and flaked, follows the flood and Ed stands up to follow its jagged path. The scratching above him grows louder. No longer quiet enough to pretend it’s just the wind. The box rolls through the gap in a purple velvet curtain and Ed dives after it.

He emerges on the other side to thunderous applause. The rows of rows of seat in his high school auditorium are full of people dressed in finery. The applause dies down from their thick bejeweled hands.  Their eyes blink up at him wide with expectation.

Ed turns to take in the rest of the stage. He is standing in a replica of his old flat. The windows are flimsy balsa wood with thin green plastic instead of glass, lighting the set lit with a poisonous light. Ed descends stage right to inspect the bed. It’s a perfect copy, down the chipped headboard inherited from the original owner. The stained pillow case is the same from where an unexpected house guest had….

He grabbed his head as pain shot through it. Sitting on the edge of the mattress for support he heard a light titter from someone in the audience. He rubs his eyes suddenly feeling so tired.

_You need to sleep._

Ed’s heart leaps against his broken rips. He tries to look over but pain laces him again and he has to look away. He has to settle for the blurry peripheral as someone comes down stage to sit in the chair by the prop window.

Don’t sit by the window, Ed wants to say, why did you always want to sit there, what if someone sees you.

What he actually says is, “Until I am measured I am not known, Yet how you miss me when I have flown”

There is a huff from Ed’s left, _A straight answer this side of Christmas would be nice_.

“Time.” Ed says. The words come naturally to him, Placed into his mouth while his mind is occupied with pain. Like a man with a painful tooth, he keeps trying to look over, and each time he gets a glimpse of dark hair before the pain becomes to great. “I don’t have enough of it with Gordon sniffing around.”

Ed feels him leave the chair; his eyes try to follow in vain. His jaw cracks as an unexpected yawn overtakes him. As his eyes close he feels hands push him down gently into the bed. When he is able to open them there is cup of tea on the bedside table. 

Ed looks out into the audience searching for the words that now won’t come. The familiarity of the situation is disquieting. The sea black jeweled masks are impassive; there is no help from there.

“Please.” Ed whispers, his own words breaking through the lump in his throat. “Please just let me look at you.”

 _No_ , the other replied. He’s so close Ed can fell his arm brush his as he moves to sit back down. Something is scratching at the window. The plastic panes won’t hold whatever it is for long.

 _No, you say ‘what good is tea to me’_ , the dream corrected.

“I never said that,” Ed pleaded, “I don’t remember this, please…”

 _What good is tea to me_ , he repeats sadly.

Ed sighs, the scratching is getting louder and it’s getting harder to get his true words in place. It is easier to follow the script. He doesn’t even really know what he really wants to say anyway. 

“What good is tea to me.” He acquiesces; the pressure on his brain lessens. The scrabbling at the window has not.

_It will help you sleep. It’s my mother recipe._

Ed takes a sip. His tastebuds tingle with memory. He knows this tea like he knows this man. Just one tiny peep would be enough, he thought.

 _Or as close as I can get to it at least_ , the specter added, _there’s something missing_.

“Honestly” Ed muttered “From the bottom of my heart I do not care. I want to enjoy the new turn my life has taken and that will be difficult while rotting in Arkham.”

In that moment, Ed is glad the dream does not let him see the other man’s face.

_Then why are you bothering? Why don’t you tell Jim where to find me and never come back to this place again?_

Ed takes another sip of tea, it’s the perfect temperature. The audience is holding its breath; Ed is in complete sympathy with them.

“Your mother’s tea is missing nettles.”

_How is that…_

The cup chinking against the saucer was the only sound, even the scratching had stopped, “The region your mother came from is known for its nettle tea. You have a sweet tooth so you would miss the sweetness of brewed nettle.”

Ed felt the press of another body as it sat at the foot of his bed, _you hate my stories about my mother?_

“And you hate my riddles.”

It’s not an answer, not a proper one, Ed knows. He tries to sharpen his frustration into movement, to grab a hand or something. But he is frozen in place, the memory spooling out in its preordained pattern.

“I’ll pick up some tomorrow.” He promises into the silence that neither of them feels brave enough to break. He settles fully under the covers, head pressed into the blessed coolness of the pillow.   

 _You won’t remember in the morning_ , he said sadly, Yo _u never remember any of these conversations_

“I never forget the important things.” Ed offered.

The unscripted Ed was confused at this as the memory of his friends seemed to be. A cool hand touches his brow and Ed unconsciously presses into it.

_Go to sleep._

Ed opens his eyes and sees her.

She has Kristen’s neck, broken veins and bruises spreading across her body. The skin of her face is ripped to shreds by the train that had killed Isabella in life.  Rot has set into her beautiful face pulling her lips back into a rictus of a smile. Sunken, haunted eyes stare down at Ed with such pity. The. The murmuring of the crowd grows louder. Something cold with sharp claws touches his foot.

 _Don’t worry sweetheart,_ she promised through a crushed larynx, _I’ll still be with you when you wake._


	3. Thy leaves are so unchanging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Nygma family reunion ends how you would expect.

[ ](http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com/post/154765189413/come-in-and-know-me-better-man-chapter-3#notes)

He awakened with a stinging cheek. Someone had slapped him awake. His mind at three paces behind, Ed reeled rudderless as he tries to work out where he is.

A large broken window dominates the side of the room. Holes where large shards were missing let in harsh light that peppered the wall. Even with the blurriness of his vision Ed recognised the observation room on the other side of his cell. The only other light in the room came from a tasteful art deco lamp on the desk that sat in front of the window. Splinters of bloody glass had been left on the surface with only a small space cleared for a depressingly familiar tray of tools. Two of the tiny knives already have blood on them; the third was in the Talon’s hand.

Catherine was also in the room. Safely sitting on the other side of the room to the chair where Ed was strapped into. She was drinking something golden and expensive in a crystal glass, watching Ed’s every move with sharp eyes. What an honour it was to see Catherine this often in so many days, Ed thought morosely.

“What happened to my hand?” Ed managed.

The weight of his injuries hit him. The throb of his ribs was a recognisable companion as always and his vision headache had not improved with sleep. The aching in his hand was new. His left hand was covered in tiny cuts, large bruises painted his bloody knuckles. He couldn’t even see his right hand it was so swathed in bandages. He wriggled his hand, grateful that there is movement despite the numbness. 

A look confusion briefly crossed Catherine’s face, quickly stifled by her usual expression of blank indifference. “You smashed the observation mirror in your cell last night. You had to be restrained as you were refusing medical attention.”

Ed remembered the thick red anger and the ghosts’ taunts but his memories after that were a blank. His mind flashed back to the empty porridge bowl. How much time was he loosing? Even as his head pounded, Ed felt his thoughts becoming sluggish in the face of cruel lucidity.

“Attempting another escape after how well the last one went was not your best plan.” Catherine sighed. “That was what this was, I’m assuming, destroying your cell so you would be moved to a less secure location?”

Even if she hadn’t been talking rhetorically, Ed wasn’t sure he would have been able to answer her. Had that been his plan? Any attempt to find the corresponding memory slide away from his grasp.

“You can put aside any notion of that as we are in the process of replacing the observation glass in your cell.” Catherine sat up straighter in her chair as she pulled a clipboard onto her lap, “Who where you telling to ‘shut up’?”

Dimly, Ed remembered someone screaming those words. He remembered the mirage past loves mocking him. He mostly remembers a lot of pain.

He said nothing.

“Are experiencing hallucinations?” She asked, a glossy fountain pen poised over the paper.  “Auditory or Visual?”

 _That’s just another Tuesday for you, Edna_ , Someone said.

Ed managed to turn his head towards the voice, neck straining in its restraints. He hasn’t seen the figure in the mirror for over a decade, and had had no wish to.

The ghost could, with a generous mind that Ed had never possessed, be called a man. A wispy beard, so close to his fathers, clung to sallow cheeks smirking lips. In life the ghost had inherited the same haughty green eyes and dark thick hair from their father, death had robbed him of neither.

Frustrated, Ed shook himself. Had the Court had robbed him of all his senses as well as his freedom.

 “Narratively,” Ed commented in a hoarse whisper, “Shouldn’t you be the ghost of Christmas Past?”

Both Catherine and the Talon turned to stare at the empty air Ed conversed with.  A small part of Ed still baulked at this blatant display of mental instability. He couldn’t stop his brain from cataloguing the indignities it had suffered, but Ed is too beaten down to care.

 _The amount of people you’ve killed there would a lot of takers for that job_ , the other said.

“Who are you talking too Mr Nygma?”

 _Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends_ , it asked, _I like the ones sticking knives into you. He and I would have some very similar interests._

Ed ignored him and turned back to Catherine, “My brother, Samuel Nygma Junior.”

Even after as these years that honorific still barbed him coming out of his mouth. The first born son of the Nygma’s had never had any intention to share anything with Ed. The irony that Samuel was now sharing space in Ed’s broken brain did not go unnoticed.

Catherine slowly checked something on her clipboard, keeping her attention firmly fixed to Ed, “Your dead brother?”

 _And whose fault is that_ , Samuel Nygma asked. He turned to the unseeing Catherine and pointed to a folder on the desk, _Can I have a look at that?_

Through a gap in the broken mirror an arm reaches out. Even repeating to himself that what he saw was a mirage, Ed still gasped as rotten grey skin advances towards Catherine’s slack unsuspecting hands. The fingers uncurled at unnatural angles, discoloured bone sticking out of paper skin. The hand drew a thick file into the glass. Samuel flicked through the thick pages, skin now unblemished.

When Ed looked over at Catherine she was furiously writing on the clipboard.

 _Wow, you have been busy_ ; _you’re up to proper murder now._ Samuel laughed turning to the unseeing Catherine, _you know he used to torture rabbits, you should write that down_.

“I never killed your rabbit.” Ed argued.

Catherine looked up, concerned, “Rabbit?”

“My brother’s rabbit escaped when I was seven. They found torn apart by a snare in the woods behind our house.” Ed still remembered its red eyes that would watch you minutely for any chance to sink its needle teeth in your fingers.

 _And obviously Uncle James’ pen knife went missing at the same time on accident_ , Samuel snorted. _Oh look here it says you became a forensic examiner. So at least all the time you spent butchering Lutwidge was worth something. You know how father hates useless information. Or still hates”_

Ed was a genius child. He was incandescently smarter than anyone they trapped him in a classroom with. That didn’t matter of course, people have always been puzzles. Not very interesting ones, but still, it has passed the time while being rushed from one battery of parental mandated testing to another.

Ed was also a genius child in a house of geniuses. Ed and Samuel had shared a tiny bedroom while his mother and fathers studies stretched the length of the house with forbidden knowledge. Samuel had gotten a rabbit for his birthday. Ed had gotten a lecture on showing off.

“I didn’t kill your rabbit.” Ed insisted, his voice cracking.

 _Then a dead girlfriend_ , Samuel recited, _oh and another one. You’ll never lose your virginity at this rate Edna._

“Don’t call me that.”

The ghost ignored his brother’s plea, _Couple of dead cops too, that’s nice.  Here it says known associate on The P…_

“Don’t you dare,” Ed hissed, “say his name.”

The room is silent. Even Catherine’s pen is silent in the trail of spoken venom.

Samuel raised his eyebrow, _are you this protective of all your victims. Do you shout at people if they bring up my name?_

“I didn’t kill you.” Ed insisted feeling ten years old again. He knows the feel of these words too well, Repeated numbly to family, the police and his reflection. “It was an accident.”

 _Yes I tripped on a tree root obscured by snow on a path I walked every day._ Green eyes rolled sarcastically _, on my way to find you._

“Mr Nygma, Did you kill your brother?” Catherine asked. Ed had failed to notice that she was leaning out of her seat staring close into his wide eyes.

“No.” Ed shouted.

 _Liar_.

“No.”

The figure advanced towards the centre of the shattered glass, Ed imagined he could feel his breath on his feverish skin.  A Spider web of cracks painted Samuel’s face. Through the holes in the panes Ed saw decaying mottled skin. The top of Samuel’s head is smashed, his once promising brain mushed into his hair.

_Do not lie to me moron. I know you. I know how you dreamt of being me. How much smarter and loved I was than you. Father would barely give you the time of day to beat you when I was there._

Samuel’s eyes drilled red into Ed’s soul. Ed experienced real fear of his brother for the first time in eighteen years. The crushing weight of suspicion and fear is back like a re-gifted present. He remembered repeating his truth to anyone that would listen in the hope that it would change the expression in his father’s eyes. The first thing the Nygma sons learnt was that father was always right, maybe he had been right about this too.

 _You got your Christmas wish_ , the spectre intoned, I _am you. You made me to remind you of what got to this point Edward Nygma and the choice you have to make this day._

“You mean the ‘why do I want to escape’ question?” Ed snapped. His old rage at his sibling was rekindled. He had spent the first ten years of his life in his brothers shadow, he was not about to become nostalgic for old habits. “The answer is increasingly to get away from you.”

 _Why do you say no to the Court_ , Samuel asked, _you always wanted someone stronger to protect you, you’d think a sinister shadow dwelling cabal would fill that perfectly._  

“I..” the question wrong-foots Ed. No clear answer presented itself. He was so tired of fighting, of each escape attempt rewarding him with new scars, of thin gruel and blurred vision, of his brain slowly rotting with only visions of mistakes for company.

The headache has returned, scattering all thoughts. Still tied to the chair, Ed can only back his head against the headrest making Catherine shoot to her feet to order the Talon to restrain him

 _Think about it_ , Samuel whispered, _it’s not like you’ve ever considered anyone else’s needs_. 

Ed’s eyes roll back into his head. The last thing he hears is Catherine’s call for medical attention and his brother laughing at him.

He is back walking in the woods. The snow is crisp under his hand-me-down wellies. Somewhere in the trees and mechanical cuckoo sings the hour. Ed inspects the puzzle box in his hand. The label on bottom proclaiming it to be property of Samuel Nygma Junior is coming loose. Ed picks it off with a raged thumbnail and lets it fall to the snow. 

There is an angry bellow that sets the birds flying. Ed runs trusting years of knowledge of sanctuary in these woods to guide his feet on the obscured path. His feet are sure as he negotiates the twisting roots and rocky outcrops. The irony is delicious. The useless knowledge of the local woodland that his brother had mocked him for is going to

Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees jewelled masks peering at him from the trees.

There is a sickening thud behind him and the pursuing footsteps are no more. 

The snow looks like Raspberry ice-cream, Ed notices. There is a fleck of something grey on his welly, he wipes his foot against the tree. If he gets brain matter over his new gloves mother will be so upset.

He follows the path down into town. The dark presence tangled in the tree lessening the further he meanders away. The rabbit snare is still there, empty but for a few tuffs of matted fur. He pays it no mind.

Ed walks into the town, the ancient shops with their Christmas lights looking as grubby and small as he remembered.  The library was the only bright spot to Ed’s young mind. The peeling paint and crumbling plaster held all the information an inquiring mind could want.

He walks past the stacks of books and the yellowing computers, waving at the librarian who barely looks up from her tawdry paperback.  There might be a slim figure in horn-rim glasses watching Ed from the card index, he pays her no mind.

The public telephone hangs off the hook, the dial tone piercing in the quiet of this refuge. Reaching into his pocket, Ed pulls out a handful of old pennies and places them systematically into the slots. His fingers come away red with rust.

The worn buttons are stiff under Ed’s fingers as he types out his home number. His listens to the false cheer of the answerphone before surreptitiously cutting the call.

“Sam.” He says into the empty dial tone, “can you come pick me up?”

The librarian looks at him while he argues with the air. She smiles vacantly at him. That youngest Nygma boy, nothing like his brother.

Another figure has joint the woman by the card index. His head is oozing. Ed waves the puzzle box towards the ghosts. He had already solved it. His brother would never again get the chance.  

Ed savours the memory. He places the receiver down and takes a deep pull of pine scented air. He closes his eyes.

He opened them to chaos.

He was in the corridor outside his cell and every alarm is blaring. The red light is dazzling and, once again, Ed is unable to get his bearings. Armed guards poured out of a side room, bristling with weapons. His already broken glasses have been smashed underfoot.

Looking around wildly, a tiny flicker of hope kindling in the chaos, Ed spotted Catherine. She is cowering on the floor screaming instructions to the guards despite the pain of a free bleeding head wound. Tendrils of perfectly coiffed hair and blood fall across her face.

 There was something in Ed’s mouth and for a second he thinks he’s been gagged as well as bound. He spat out the intrusion.  A matted clump of bloody blond hair drops to the ground.

This must still be part of the hallucination, Ed futilely hoped. But the guards that dragged him back into his cell felt all too real.


	4. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The regularly scheduled procession of ghosts is interrupted

[ ](http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com/post/155070413563/come-in-and-know-me-better-man-chapter-4)

Ed was alone in the cell for five hours. For the first hour Ed heard the fallout of his attack, the invisible medical staff taking Catherine away with calm muffled voices. A number of guards were stationed in front of Ed’s door but after he didn’t move from his bunk for three hours they had left to regain their position behind the mirror.

True to her word, Catherine had had the observation glass restored.  It stretched out in front of Ed, hazy and cold through his blurry vision. He took a brief moment to mourn the loss of his glasses. While in Arkham he’d managed to keep hold of his sanity and his glasses. It seemed that he would leave this place with neither. The room is in total darkness, with only the glint of the glass to suggest light,

Ed was almost grateful for meagre warmth of the straitjacket he’d been locked in, despite the cramp he was getting in his arms. He tried to ignore the cold shivers as any movement lanced pain through his ribs.  His cheek was also stinging. Catherine must have gotten at least one good scratch in with those perfect nails. He gingerly pressed his tongue to the inside of the skin, tongue brushing something that tasted almost metallic, but a stinging pain in his head told him that was a bad idea.

For a second, when he’d come around with the alarms blaring in the middle of the chaos, Ed had let himself hope. He’d thought there was a sliver of a chance that someone had come for him and was storming the building, that maybe he was not as friendless as he’d thought.  Now shivering and truly alone, Ed knew no one was coming. If the Court had even still expected him to say yes to their offer that bridge was thoroughly burnt now. 

Sense of sight diminished to his frosted breath, Ed can just about pick out the odd noise; a cough, the clink of china on wood, a chair scraping on the floor. He thinks that maybe he can see figures moving around behind the glass but as soon as he tries to get his tired eyes to focus they disappear.

He sleeps in fits and starts. He awakens to his mouth bleeding from a cut in his cheek. His unconscious mind doesn’t send him any more torturous visions. Both a blessing and a curse. His mind drifts back to the child in the woods, the flight and the escape. The smell of the pine and the crunch of the snow seemed realer than the constant numb pain of his reality. Ed recalled the seed of victory he’d felt at the slight of his brothers brains smashed into the rocks. After a decade of mocking and belittling, Edward Nygma had been the smartest when it had counted not Samuel.

Only now he realised that he’d been searching for that feeling for the rest of his life. That feeling of earned superiority when something your mind could see so clearly comes to life. No one else understood Ed’s brilliance. _Perhaps_ , something tiny and treacherous whispered, _given time he could have_. Ed shook his head, letting a wave of pain wash treacherous thoughts aside.  He was the only one.

_Why do you talk to yourself?_

Ed was not alone in his cell. For a moment of panic he thought to get up and defend himself. But his mind is too tired to even contemplate protection. He managed to lift his aching head up to look at the intruder.

It’s a strange sort of relief to see Bruce Wayne staring at him from the inky blackness of the glass. As far as ghosts go, it was not who Ed had expected. He told the vision as much.

The child stares back at him in blank confusion, _who were you expecting?_

“Someone else whose death I caused.” Ed murmured, “I killed Kristen, led both Isabella and my brother to their death. I don’t remember killing you.”

_Are you sure you didn’t?_

Ed rolled his eyes. It hurt, but it was worth it. “I gave you some mild psychological torture. its part of growing up, made me the man I am today.”

Wayne’s face didn’t change. He stared impassively out at Ed as an object of piteous curiosity.

“Who are you supposed to be anyway?” clearly his brain was taking pity on him if it was manifesting something as weedy as the Wayne spawn to torment him. “You’re more a Tiny Tim than any Ghost of Christmas yet to come.”

 _You think I’m a ghost?,_ Wayne asked.

Ed sat up fully, resting his sore back on the wall so he can face the figure directly. He waved his bandaged hand dismissively “Mental manifestation, mirage, whatever narrative theme my brain is on right now.”

 _You’re experiencing hallucin_ ations, Wayne asked, _does that happen often?_

“Not for a while.”

Because he hadn’t been at war with himself since he’d killed Kristen. Once he’d shed uneasy morality he’d been more stable. The buried parts of him had no reason to be hidden. And he’d had someone to share…

“No.” Ed muttered, restoring denial.  

 _No, what?_ asked Wayne.

“I’m not talking to you.” Ed snapped. His blurred vision was giving him a splitting headache.

 _When did the visions restart,_ Wayne persisted.

“After my last escape attempt.” Ed answered.

_And you had them often before?_

“Sometimes.”

But that wasn’t right. If those strange dream-like memories could be believed he had been not only talking to that dormant part of himself but letting it take control for nearly two decades. He’d been like this for years, constantly pushing own his darker dimensions until the moment came for him to either accept it or go truly mad. 

Ed laughed suddenly, even the ghost startled at the unexpected noise startling in the hush of the room. 

“It’s the only way of insuring intelligent conversation.” Ed giggled.

_What?_

“Why I talk to myself,” Ed smile tasted of old pennies, “It’s because it’s the only way of insuring intelligent conversation.”

 _You are truly insane_ , the boy said. Ed can hear the pity and revulsion in his voice.

He couldn’t stop laughing. Hysteria bubbled up inside him as the tears streamed down his face. Eventually the mania burnt out and left him bone tired. Ed closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short one today because the next ones are going to be long ones. hope everyone had an amazing Christmas, because Ed definitely isn't


	5. Like two birds of a feather would be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas in heaven

Ed opened his eyes in the old apartment. He was lying in his bed, the blankets soft and warm. This time there is no audience, just solid walls and a warm golden light from the windows. The falling snow and gave the world a close feel, as if there is nothing in the world but the warm sheets.

Something scratched in the wall.

_Don’t worry about that_ , murmured a sleepy voice by his ear. Instinctively, Ed pressed his body forward into the solid warmth in front of him. Keeping his eyes firmly on the snow that rapidly filled the window sill, Ed tamped down on his overwhelming desire to look at the figure in the bed. Orpheus never made the same mistake with Eurydice twice.

The snow had crept halfway up the window. The scratching had all but disappeared, a muffled tapping that could be safely ignored. Ed squeezed the ghost’s waist in thanks.

_You know the irony is we never got to do this in reality._

The room drops a few degrees as Ed pressed his face into black slicked locks. “For all we know it could be. I might have forgotten this.”

_I wouldn’t have._

Ed sighed in logical frustration, “You’re a figment of my imagination though.”

A huff of laughter, _Exactly_.

He ignored the implications of that in favour of enjoying the moment. His mind had managed to recreate the scent of hair pomade and something uniquely them. Ed had never been so grateful for his eidetic memory.

“So what are you then. The ghost of Christmas that never happened?” Ed asked, “At least this is a definite improvement on the last hallucination.”

_I have no idea what that was_ , he said, as seemingly confused at the Bruce Wayne as Ed had been, _that wasn’t you_.  

Huh. “Why here then?”

_This **is** all you,_ the body snuggled closer against Ed’s back. _You needed a reprieve somewhere safe._

“We never spent Christmas together.” Ed remembered, “We talked about it though.”

It was never a real conversation. While a fugitive, they’d reminisced at length about their beloved mothers cooking while Ed had listened and made vague promises that they wouldn’t spend that first Christmas without her alone.

Of course events had conspired in a way that made that impossible. Ed had spent the last Christmas staring at the blank faces of his fellow Arkham inmates as they drooled into their tiny slices of fruit cake.

“Would it have made a difference,” Ed asked involuntarily, “If we had been together at Christmas.”

Ed felt the ghost sigh _. I still would have fallen in love with you. You probably would have stabbed me with a carving knife instead of trying to shoot me in the eye though._

Reaching out with guilty fingers, Ed tentatively stroked the others face glad to find both eyes intact. With a huff they removed Ed’s hand and laced their fingers together on the pillow.

_This is your dream remember_ , he squeezed Ed’s fingers, _even you aren’t that self-loathing._

Ed remembered the broken shell  of a man that he’d replicated the last time he’d conjured the old apartment, “You sure about that.”

_Figment of **your** imagination, remember._

It was typical, Ed thought, that is idealised version of his best friend would be honest in a way the real one had never proven to be. They were almost snowed in; the only sound their tandem breaths. Instead of feeling oppressed, Ed had never felt so safe.

He took a deep breath, “I’m sorry you’re dead.”

_Not as much a me_ , Ed felt the eye roll even without seeing the face.

“That’s the first time I’ve thought about it.” Ed admitted, “I suppose while I could ignore it I could pretend you might still care enough to come and save me.”

That had been a tiny hope even before. A man who destroys the empire of the man he called his best friend should not get the luxury of an eleventh hour rescue. The ghost rubbed Ed’s hand affectionately.

_And now I’m dead you don’t think a rescue is coming,_ He asked, _What’s the point of even trying. You could give up._

Ed had no answer to that.

_If there’s nothing for you up there, you could just stay down here with me,_ he offered.

“You’re much nicer than the other ghosts.” Ed commented evading the question.

And he really was, Ed thought. Where his mind had presented him with his family and lovers darkened and honed into truth spitting monsters, this last spectre shared his bed and thoughts with no recrimination. He idly rubbed his thumb against the clasped hand, checking for the zombie-like rotting.

He recalled the vision of being brought tea. How the words and feelings had slotted into place so easily.  

“Did we really used to talk?” Ed rephrased quickly, “I mean the real you, not that parts that’s a figment of my imagination, with… him.”

_Of course, when you were living together you were so stressed about someone discovering what you did to Miss Kringle. You needed someone to keep an eye on things._

“I don’t remember any of that.” Ed marvelled. Apart from the horror of knowing his body walked around of its own violation more than he already knew about, he can’t help be impressed at the power of his own mind.

_You always said you never forget the important things_

“And you’re important?” Ed asked with dawning realisation.

Because he was important. He was the first real friend that Ed had ever had the first person that really understood him. Apparently that meant all aspects of Edward Nygma, even the hidden ones. By destroying that friendship, Ed had ruined not only his one but the Riddler’s too.

In this snow globe moment away from the pain and frantic denial, Ed had a moment to think.  He’d refused to let himself think about what that death meant, locking his grief away in a tiny puzzle box in the corner of his psyche. Even in this safe space, he felt the tendrils of something dark press against his mind at every breath of the phantom in his arms.

The other squeezed his hand as he felt Ed’s turmoil; simultaneously something gripped Ed’s heart. And oh, that’s why.

“That’s inconvenient.” Ed breathed.

_Like I said_ , the ghost said, _the irony is we never got to do this in reality_

Before he can stop it, Ed’s brain maps it all out. He never would have been susceptible to Isabella which wouldn’t have left him venerable to the Owls. He never would have lashed out and destroyed the criminal empire that he could have ruled. He is incandescently angry with himself.

“Then what’s the point?” he asked. “I might as well give up.”

_Then why haven’t you?_

And that was the question wasn’t it. From the moment he’d seen the article he’d known that he would spend another Christmas alone and imprisoned. After all his failed escape attempts it didn’t take a genius to work out the only escape from the nightmare was death. What was making him hold on?

He felt the shift of warm skin against skin as he turned in his arms. Ed squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a warm hand stroke his cheek, the same cheek that Catherine’s nails had savaged.

_If I know why then you do too_ , he said and bent down to kiss him.

Ed awakened with the scent of pine in his nose and his heart beating from the proximity. He shivers as the temperature of reality reasserted itself and he misses the warmth of another body in his very being.

In sleep his un-bandaged hand has migrated under the thin pillow. Curiously, Ed feels his fingers brush something metallic. Turning his back to the observation window, Ed discreetly studied the contents.

The first is the newspaper article. Ed had assumed he had destroyed it in his rage but here it was, it’s angry creases smoothed out lovingly, with only the minimal amount of blood on the date. 

The second is a thin hair pin. A few strands of blonde bloodied hair are caught in the tines, dried on with saliva and blood.

Ed blinked slowly, uncomprehending tableau before him. The headache, his constant companion since the spirits had visited this hellhole, slowly cleared. The familiar fog of pain in Ed’s minds strted to clear.

For the first time in months, Edward Nygma smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New year :)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the inevitable result of working in a retail environment where they play Christmas music non-stop. 
> 
> Please leave any comments or kudos bellow. this story has been ratting around in my head for two months and I'm really proud that managed to write anything at all. 
> 
> Updates on Sundays and Wednesday (fingers crossed). but until then you can find me at http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com/


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